Travel, Dance, Minimalism (Some poetry, some books, some art)

sleeping

When I hated my life (for roughly six months last year), my dreams were beautiful and comforting. I slept for something like 13 hours a day. I woke up wishing I could be living what I was dreaming. I can’t give you an example, the only thing that I really remember was being deeply content. Transitioning to daylight was almost unbearable.

Now that I am more or less content with my life, my dreams are frightening and horrible. Last night I had what I consider a classic horror movie dream, involving some sort of maggots laying eggs in my skin. Also I dream about things breaking or malicious intent of someone I love.

When I have a bad day my dreams are better, but since I am mostly happy with my life right now, they are still tinged with a negative aura.

Flashback to a year and a half, when I wasn’t sleeping at all, and something becomes very clear to me. I wasn’t sleeping, so I wasn’t dreaming. All the very horrible and very good had to be expressed during my waking life.

Dreams don’t make sense, and when I stop having them, when I stop sleeping, that madness leaks into real life. The yin yang is no longer separated into neat black and white curves.